Play the Game
by Giggles96
Summary: What if, instead of jumping, Sherlock anticipates Moriarty's plans from the very beginning and hatches a plan of his own? His most ambitious plan of all: taming the world's only consulting criminal. Parts 3/3.
1. Chapter 1

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Play the Game**

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

* * *

 **A/N:** I wasn't sure if I should post this or not, because this is my first attempt at writing anything like this and I was quite nervous about showing it to the world. Still am, actually. It felt like such an ambitious project that I wrote the whole thing before posting because I was so scared of messing it up. Good news for any fans, though, since that means that the next chapters are just waiting for some final editing and could be posted whenever I feel like it. In the interest of your own pleasure, I recommend suspending any and all belief. I tried to make a highly unrealistic situation as realistic as I possibly could, but in some parts, it may be lacking.

 **Disclaimer:** none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

* * *

 **-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

 **-0-o-0-o-0-**

 **-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

 _It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild and menacing._

Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

 **Part 1: Resisted.**

His last memory is that of a bag.

Soft cloth yanked over his head, kicking, thrashing, spits of light and arms like steel pinning him, but he wasn't suffocating. No, no. These were not his final breaths. He'd _roared_ ; a black storm of threats and mockery retching from his lips. Yells of fury, of euphoric insanity. Little did he know it was the last he'd ever shout.

Then a fleeting prick in his bare neck and all of a sudden his limbs were drooping, lumbering, falling back… back… backwards into nothing.

 **...**

He jerks awake gasping.

Through the haze and lasting disorientation, he recognises the room instantly. It is a bedroom. _Sherlock's_ bedroom, to be precise, elegant and cluttered and predictably minimal. He's never seen it in person, but he remembers Irene Adler's description back when he'd pestered her for details, and of course - there is his coat, spilling over the floor.

He was supposed to die today. Sherlock, too.

He remembers…remembers…

Sherlock _had_ texted him, hadn't he? The ping on his phone, the listless car ride… a pounding headache, he recalls they way he'd turned away from the window and massaged his temples …sliding on dark sunglasses, the sleek revolver slipped into his pocket, St Bart's hospi-

 _Ah_.

Sherlock nabbed him at the hospital? _Really_? Well, that's a bit of a disappointment.

He has the sudden urge to laugh. Instead, something obstructs him. Almost like...like he _can't_. His chest is thick and full, and won't…won't balloon right, isn't expelling a laugh but a pant, and he feels _different_ …strangely off… there's something very, very wrong about this, but he can't put his finger on what.

Then again. Looks like he won't be putting his fingers on anything anytime soon, because there, encasing his hands, are big, bulky mittens, Velcro straps secured around his wrists and hampering his movements. They aren't uncomfortable, per say, being so heavily padded. But they do stop him from flexing even his pinky finger.

Moriarty shifts a few degrees to the right and discovers that similar pads have been fastened around his kneecaps. Curious, he lifts his leg and is pleased to note that the pads do not confine him to the bed, though that merely begs the question: _what exactly is their purpose?_ In fact, nothing seems to be preventing him for getting up and walking out of here, were he so inclined. But that's silly - unforgivably careless. Sherlock might be ordinary, but he'd thought him better than that.

Jim glances around but he can't figure out what part of this is a trick. The half-opened door? The lack of restraints? The ringing silence of the flat?

Everything about this raises suspicion. The hair on the back of his neck stands erect.

Weak from whatever drugs they've injected into his system, Moriarty props himself up onto his elbows and cautiously places a sock-covered foot on the floor.

He pushes himself up-

And immediately falls down again, rebounding back onto the mattress with a creeping frown.

So the drugs - they made it so that he couldn't walk or something? It's the most logical explanation, but it doesn't sit well with him. That hadn't felt like frailty….It felt like forgetting.

Clenching his jaw, Jim forces himself to swallow his pride and try again…and again, and _again_ , failing. _Every. Single. Time._

It's as though the muscles in his legs can't quite grasp how they're supposed to sustain his weight, like they're not designed to do so upright. It is as if he's not familiar with standing on his hind le- Jim's cuts himself off, brows knitting.

 _Hind_ legs.

What a peculiar description.

Shaking his head to clear the residual fogginess, only then does Jim become aware of a strange jingle, this metallic tinkling that occurs whenever he moves. He glances down and can't quite believe he'd missed this before. The writing is upside down, but he has no problem making out the word. There, bold and glossy and unmistakable, engraved on a light, bronze nametag, are the letters JIM.

There's only one way that could be.

He, Jim Moriarty, world's only consulting criminal, has a flipping _collar_ clamped around his neck. Stunned beyond belief, it's at that instant, that Jim truly loses it.

He begins shrieking and ranting, cursing Sherlock Holmes to the darkest pits of hell, and it's midway through his third sentence that he realises they aren't sentences at all. That's when he _really_ panics, tearing at his neck and his chest as if to fix the fact that his vocal cords have been hijacked and twisted into something awfully animalistic.

His hands are wet and sticky, stained a vibrant red, by the time Sherlock and John burst into the room. They halt, momentarily horrified, before spurring into action, Sherlock snatching his hands and pulling them away from his tattered skin, while John fetches a damp facecloth and begins to mop up the blood.

Breathing hard, Jim glares at his captors and barks again, frustration burning bright as he futilely struggles to escape their tight grip.

'It's okay, puppy,' John murmurs, using his smooth 'doctor' voice. Jim's eyes widen past the point of ridiculousness. 'We're not gonna hurt you-'

Puppy? _Puppy?!_

The consulting criminal's unnatural barks reach new heights, growing louder and louder and more desperate, as he successfully wrenches himself away. Then, as his nemesis advances towards him, Moriarty makes the strangest sound - shuddering, sharp and brutal, in the root of his throat.

Sherlock laughs, surprised. 'Did you just _growl_ at me, puppy?'

There is that bloody word again! That's twice now he's being addressed as such within the past two minutes.

'I think it was more of a snarl,' John states, stepping back and appraising the incensed man, fenced in on Sherlock's bed. 'Pretty good too. Maybe needs to work on the ferocity of it, though.'

'Yes,' the detective hums. 'I found the low timbre severely lacking myself.' Infuriated by their flippancy, the thundering growls increase tenfold, lips drawn back and warped around glittering teeth.

'He's not very scary, is he, John?' Sherlock remarks in something like disappointment. 'Do you think he's scary?'

'Not really. Perhaps he'd give Mrs Hudson a fright?'

'I doubt it. She watches a surprising number of horror films for an old ba-' Sherlock rolls his eyes as John shoots him a look. 'Sorry. _Mature_ woman.'

' _Is_ she a dog person?'

'More of a cat lady, I'd venture. Though you know what she's like.'

'That's true,' John nods, mouth tucked inwards. 'She'll be fussing over him in no time, I'll bet, once he's settled in.'

'Well, it _is_ Mrs Hudson-'

Jim, outraged at being _ignored_ in the middle of his crisis, strikes Sherlock hard with one of his thickly-mitted hands. Which, unfortunately, isn't nearly hard enough. He wants to gouge out their eyeballs.

'Oh,' Sherlock blinks, delicately touching his jaw, 'Where are my manners? Jim - you're our new puppy,' he announces casually, 'Welcome home.'

 **...**

'That collar you're wearing,' Sherlock explains later, hours later, after the mother of all tantrums, with Jim hysterically lashing out and clawing at the collar, punching objects because he's incapable of picking them up to hurl and letting loose a string of screaming expletives that ring out like vicious howls.

Moriarty lies in a heap on the floor, drained and disbelieving.

'By now, I imagine you've realised that that's not your typical leather collar? We obviously didn't buy that down at the local petshop. Got it as a gift, actually. Mycroft knew someone who knew someone who knew someone…I believe you're familiar with how that works. I almost pity your minions. They won't know what hit them. They'll never know what became of the whispers, of the old legend of Moriarty. You'll just…disappear. From the network, and their minds. Soon enough, your network will disappear, too.'

Jim mutely glares back at him.

'You're wondering about your snipers,' Sherlock guesses, hands clasped behind his back and he idly circles the room. 'How I managed to foil your plan. It was all rather easy, actually. They're in custody now, of course. Once I figured it out, with Mycroft and Scotland Yard's help, it wasn't too difficult to track them down.'

If looks could kill, Sherlock would be dead ten times over.

'You want to know what the collar does?' he interprets. 'That's a little trickier to explain. See, it was built upon the philosophy that anyone's basic, genetic makeup can be altered or…tweaked, if you will. The aim is to rewire your natural instincts. Correct them, in fact. You've been such a naughty puppy, haven't you? You were out of control. This was all John's idea. Well,' he pulls a face, 'Sort of. He said destruction was in your nature. He argued you couldn't help yourself. I agree.'

Sherlock strides over and crouches beside the rabid man, paying no attention to Jim's snarling.

He wants to look him in the eye. 'It occurred to me that this is what happens when puppies are neglected,' Sherlock says, quietly, so close they're almost touching. 'They turn feral, bloodthirsty, revert back to the ways of their ancestors. I only mean to rectify that. You said so yourself, during our last conversation. Pet's are so very loyal. You described John as such, you planted the idea. I thought to myself… maybe I _should_ get a live-in one.'

His lip twitches.

'So I did.'

 **...**

He twists and shakes and growls in frustration. All it does is chaff his skin, a ring of rutted red marring his flesh.

The collar stays.

 **...**

It is unanimously decided that Jim is Sherlock's sole responsibility to care for, rather than the slightly distrustful John.

He is the one who dresses, bathes and 'toilet-trains' Jim (meaning that he goes in a litter tray plonked upon a bed of newspapers, as opposed to actually _in_ the toilet); He's in charge of pretty much everything from scrubbing his teeth to brushing out the tangles in his hair, since the ex-criminal is now totally helpless when it comes to self-care.

'There,' he breathes at the end of another rather taxing bath-time, kneeling down on the tiles and drying off the other man. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?' He's drenched from head-to-toe and blowing moist wisps of hair out of his eyes, skin tinged with dark circles of exhaustion.

Jim spits in his face.

He is a man of power. Of wealth and status and ferocious hunger. But take that away - take away Jim's tasteful, tailored suits, and his prominent clients and his world-wide influence and his millions upon millions, and what is he?

Small. That's what.

Naked, shivering, and dripping onto the floor. He's just…small.

 **...**

They give him water in a gleaming saucer.

He places a 'paw' on the rim of the bowl and tips it over, glaring at the figure towering above him. Water sparks his face and spills out onto the tiles, trickling outwards and filling the cracks. It absorbs into his kneepads and soaks through to his skin, but none of that is his concern.

He is not an animal. He is not a _dog_.

Jim will keel over and die before drinking from that filthy bowl. A filthy bowl on the _floor_.

 **...**

His throat _scorches_. This was a far greater undertaking than he predicted.

 **...**

Days in and he's in agony, but Jim is nothing if not stubborn. Not to mention, gloriously spiteful.

No matter how much Sherlock threatens and commands and cajoles, he continues to oppose dipping his tongue into the sloshing basin of sparking liquid. His thirst only strengthens as he grows weaker, and swallowing soon begins to feel like gulping down a huge ball of gluey toffee. Throat parched and gravelly, Jim's breaths come in rattling rasps. Yet he stands his ground.

His mouth feels dry and rough like sandpaper, his teeth are gritty and metallic, and there's this sharp, pounding ache coming from down deep in the earth of his gums. It doesn't help that his tongue has developed a sudden mind of its own and yearns to explore with such franticness and mania that it could be an individual organism in its own right.

Jim was already terrible for licking his lips back when he didn't possess the same impetuous whims of a mongrel and he can't resist chafing a shrivelled tongue along the jagged surface of his cracking lips and peeling it away again.

The swimming headache and protesting screech of his stiff joints and muscles could easily be dealt with by themselves, but combined with everything else, it is damn near intolerable. Then add to that his fraying thoughts and Jim is suddenly not so stubborn.

He needs something to quench the burning thirst. He…he's…

And - it - it's right _there_.

Surely one little lick wouldn't hurt? He'll be good. One little lick - what's the harm?

Skirting around the teeming bowl and feeling eyes boring into his back, Jim swallows the last of his spittle as it fizzes forward at the prospect of cold, wet, throbbing relief.

Careful, and in the most dignified manner he can master, Jim extends his neck and tentatively blows out into the dish of water, beads of condensation forming on his chin and silvery reflections bouncing back on his skin. It's taking all of his willpower not to shove in his face and hard pedal his jaw like he's bobbing for apples. But he knows Sherlock is right around the corner, closely monitoring him, and Jim _really_ doesn't wish to grant him the feat of winning, but…he's out of options.

Only then, as Jim dunks the tip of his tongue into the refreshing coolness, his dilemma over their current power-struggle goes straight out the window.

He greedily laps up that saucer of water like a man dying, and once he's slurped up every last drop of deliciousness, Jim turns to his rival and impatiently bumps the bowl with his nose in a silent order.

Sherlock refills the dish without a word, and lingers while Jim eagerly guzzles it down in seconds. When his demands for more are met with a pokerfaced expression, Jim is horrified to feel the vibrations of a wretched keen disrupting his throat.

'Give it time to settle,' Sherlock orders. 'We don't want to upset your stomach. Ten minutes. You can wait that long.' Despite his less-than-sympathetic tone, he hunkers down and streaks his fingers through the pup's dampened hair, a minor casualty in the End of Drought festivities, while Jim startles as his chest heaves in the first of many endearingly innocent hiccups.

Stupid air.

Dissatisfied by the man's ruling because he wants water and he wants it _now_ , idiot, Jim attempts to change his mind - in a non-violent manner _wholly_ unlike begging - with a minute widening of his expressive eyes and a slight tilt of the head.

'Ten minutes,' Sherlock reiterates, refusing to succumb to the charming display.

Jim scowls and whacks the detective's shoe in retaliation.

A phantom smile dusting his lips, Sherlock shrugs off his indignation, 'You'll survive.' Because Jim would. Sherlock knew he would. A dog won't let himself perish because of dehydration when he knows that his master only has to twist a tap and 'lo and behold, he's got a gushing torrent to depend on. His survival instincts would ensure that he gave in to temptation. It was only a matter of time.

Sherlock isn't remotely surprised. Impressed that he held out so long, yes, but not likely to feel relieved by the sudden surrender he'd seen coming a mile off.

And as he hops around his bowl while anxiously waiting for a top up and finally embraces his new means of consumption with almost no trepidation, it never occurs to Jim that Sherlock forgot to gloat about winning.

 **...**

Every day, Sherlock does this thing where he pitches a spongy ball, jumps up onto the sofa where he perches on his hunches with steepled fingers and a penetrating gaze, and waits for Jim to crack.

At first, the thumping bounce didn't bother him. Snubbing the dull ball was easy-peasy; ignoring Sherlock was another matter. But he managed.

There was a brief flicker of...this…this _something_ whenever he laid eyes on it, but Jim didn't think it was much to worry about. It was only a harmless ball, after all.

Over time, that mild interest turned to keen awareness, which soon carved the way for burning desire. Jim found himself staring longingly at the ball while Sherlock was out (loafing on the fireplace and huddling next to the hideous skull), and on the detective's return, he would switch his hawk-like stare to him and _wait_ for it, because he had to restrain himself from lunging at it now. His heart would quicken with anticipation while his stomach performed a series of somersaults, and, to Jim's dismay, a tide of drool would pour from his glands and swish in his mouth, seeping out at the corners like a rabid beast in a horror movie. His gums twinged at the sight.

Before he knows it, Jim can barely contain himself.

The ball is everything. Everything he ever dreamed of. And so, so, ridiculously enticing.

It is an unremarkable twitch that gives him away.

Sherlock misses nothing. His eyes track Jim's eyes as they track the ball, and a slow smile spreads across his lips. 'You want the ball, puppy? Huh? Do ya? _Do ya?_ ' He's enjoying this. 'Go get it. Go on. Get it.'

Jim stares at the ball as it rolls past.

 **...**

Nightmares are born in the dark and for as long as he remembers that's where Jim has thrived.

Still, when he is cruelly awoken one night a few weeks into his 'reforming' with a gradually worsening pain in his gums like two segments of the earth's crust rubbing against each other and tearing apart the foundations of his jaw-line, somehow he senses this is different.

The recesses of his mouth cramp and blaze as though the nerves of his teeth are on fire, and the betrayal of his body, and, indeed, his mind, stings distantly. It feels like his body is trying to eat itself.

But, no. He just wants to eat _everything_ else _._

Jim is suddenly consumed with the need to rip into the bedding of his basket and drag the material upwards. He pounces on the mattress and then the blankets and then the medium-sized plush orca that he'd turned his nose up at when Sherlock presented him with it only the day before, and the relief is instantaneous, though it never lasts.

He even begins tugging on his own clothing, hearing threads strain and snap and witnessing the puncture marks with his own two eyes, but completely powerless to put an end to the mayhem.

He fails in his battle to keep silent - high-pitched whines clawing from his throat while his nostrils flare in clipped, vehement exhales as if he's struggling not to bawl his eyes out. Finally, exhausted, he slumps onto the remains of his bed, and once he gives in to the whimpers, he can't seem to stop.

Suddenly, the light flickers on and a barefoot Sherlock and a bleary-eyed John with a hastily-tied robe, sprint into the room looking alarmed. They stop dead at the sight of Jim curled up in the foetal position, drenched in sweat and surrounded by white clumps of padding and fluttering pieces of cotton. He moans around the thick mitten he's unconsciously stuffed in his mouth, already ridged with the indentations of cutting teeth.

The pair exchange troubled glances.

Whispering furiously between themselves, he picks out the detective's distinctive, ruthless hiss among the hushed racket. _'You do it.'_

 _'No, you do it.'_ John shoves him forward.

When Sherlock hesitantly reaches out and tries pat his head, he clamps down on his hand so hard it leaves a crescent-shaped bite-mark.

 **...**

By morning, the pain is impossibly searing. Bizarrely, _incredibly..._ their puppy is teething.

And apparently it's all in Jim's head.

Least, that's what Sherlock hypothesizes, because according the wonders of the mysterious collar, Jim is about 2 and half months old. The peak time for losing baby teeth he doesn't actually own.

John had raced out and bought a heap of sturdy, durable chew toys because the handful they had were destroyed within minutes. One of which is a bright blue turtle (that is, ironically, a _baby_ 's teething toy) that they freeze and give him to gnaw on an hour later, hoping to numb the rigorous throbbing.

It works for a while, the coolness seeping into his gums and soothing the nonexistent inflammation, but the frozen toy only temporarily distracts Jim's brain from the problem, rather than cure it, and there are times when Jim can scarcely bear the scalding rawness.

If he could, he'd yank the teeth out himself. Why prolong his suffering? It would be the humane thing to do.

Sherlock seems to guess what he's thinking and does his best to keep Jim's mind off the pain, letting him take it out on him, instead. He offers a hand for the uncomfortable pup to suck and gnaw on, and though John objects, it's not as if Jim's dull incisors are capable of causing much damage. Or as much damage as he'd like, anyway.

It just means that the detective's hand is red and tender for a couple days, and once you get past the, quite frankly shocking, amount of slobber, then it's not so bad. (Even Jim can hardly believe that the bucket load of drool is his own handy work.)

It takes days of crankiness and despondency and near-tears, but finally Jim's gums stabilize into a continual need to keep chewing that's not nearly as concentrated.

And if there is one good thing to emerge from the gruelling experience, it is that, come bedtime, Jim is pretty much inseparable from his stuffed orca. It's not much of a consolation, though, until a few days later when Sherlock throws the ball and Jim doesn't hesitate to retrieve it.

 **...**

' _Not_ on the sofa,' Sherlock repeats the phrase so often his own voice must be getting sick of it. 'Down. Puppies don't belong on the furniture.' It's all Jim ever hears. Puppies can't this and puppies can't that. It's getting a little boring now.

They are _constantly_ referring to him as 'puppy.' More so than his given name. Most likely to reinforce the mindset that Jim _is_ one, which in his opinion is a load of crap.

Sherlock swats his nose using the hilt of a newspaper, with a rebuking, 'No! Bad puppy,' and he yelps, before realising that he's seriously starting to feel a little bad about trying to bite Sherlock's good shoes, and venomously scowling.

Jim will do whatever he wants, _when_ he wants; he always has. The light tap of some folded paper is hardly torture, is it? He's withstood a hell of a lot worse than that. And it's not like he _cares_ if he has Sherlock's approval or is in the dim-witted doctor's bad books. They're both as bad as it each other, gigantic doofuses the both of them. Hardly worth his time.

The most demeaning thing is the punishments aren't harsh. They barely qualify as punishments. Especially when compared to the big leagues he's used to. A spray of water, a flick on the nose - fit for a _dog_ , maybe, not someone as cold and merciless as Moriarty. He certainly wouldn't grant them the same courtesy.

They can't transform him into a model citizen - or worse, their darling little fuzz ball - with positive reinforcement or a stern scolding. It's not going to work.

Slice him, beat him, chop off his fingers, but don't try to punish him with, like, the _silent_ treatment. It's embarrassing they think that'll have any effect on him.

Throwing a bitter look Sherlock's way, Jim slinks off to the corner and makes a very pointed effort not to think about what he's done.

 **...**

He finds Jim writhing on the floor, head twisting and turning, while his floppy paws bat at the air and flashes of teeth snap at…something.

Sherlock leans against the doorframe and observes the proceedings with an amused smirk. The scene is shockingly sweet, and mostly unexpected. He hadn't thought Jim was this far along. The detective suspects this is his covert way of playing, and he wonders if this has happened before, when he's been immersing himself in lab experiments and corpses over at St. Bart's or otherwise engaged with cases.

Knowing it won't be long before Jim participates in such behaviours without caring if he's around or not, Sherlock takes one last, long look and slips away before the pup has the chance to spot him.

 **...**

Sherlock's away, gone on another case. He flew out of here in a streak of ramblings and agitation, coat billowing behind him as he practically plunged down the stairs. 'I'll be home in a few hours,' he'd said. 'Try not to break anything while I'm gone.' And that was that.

Jim pillows his head on his pa- _hands_ after squashing under the detective's bed with his beloved purple shirt trampled beneath him. He prods the velvety fabric with his nose and burrows under it. It smells like warm pats on the shoulder and apologetic, Violin Day hair tousles.

He's not sulking. He's _not_.

He's counting dust mites - they're his friends now.

Sometime, _a long time_ , later he hears an inquisitive voice call out, 'Jim?' accompanied by the swish of a scarf being torn off and the swift, hard beat of a coat being shed and flung over the back of the armchair, and if Jim had been in possession of a tail, it would have thumped against the bed frame faster than the pull of a trigger; he's that delighted. He perks up, heart skipping a beat. 'C'mere, boy. Come here. _Come out come out wherever you are...'_ The singsong voice peters out and silence rings out in the stagnant flat.

For a moment, Jim debates wriggling out to greet him, before remembering he's still fairly miffed about being left all on his lonesome without so much as a _toodle_ - _oo,_ and more to the point, why the hell should he? Jim's whereabouts or - or… _disappointment_ , didn't matter when the man was leaping up and whizzing out of here. So why now? Why should he have to be the considerate one? No, let him worry. Let him wonder.

Suspicion lacing his tone, Sherlock mutters, 'Where oh where is that damn puppy?'

Sharp footsteps thunk down the hallway and the door opens with a creak.

'Jim?' The draped sheets rustle and a disgruntled face suddenly appears in front of him, causing Jim to edge deeper into the shadows. 'What in God's name are you doing under there? Silly pup. You'll be coughing up dust and spiders for hours. I hope you know that.'

He huffs a breath through his nose and turns his head away. 'Humph.'

'Oh. I see.' His scowling voice reeks of lofty realisation. 'You're _angry_ with me.'

A muscle in Jim's jaw tics.

Sherlock tsks. 'Are you planning to stay under there all day, then? You won't come out? Not at all? That's tremendously pointless of you.'

The pup answers in the form of a snappy yap.

How _dare_ Sherlock imply that he's stupid. He's not some dull creature with a daft grudge. Oh, no, no, no. This is far bigger than that. He's outraged because of things and feelings _,_ and it is this _exact_ sort of dismissal that he doesn't take kindly to.

'Fine. Be that way. The only person you're punishing is yourself. It's really all the better for me; it's not like I _want_ an exasperating, unruly nuisance like you following me around and hounding me all day when I've got hundreds of better things to do than keep _you_ entertained.'

The sheets drop with a brusque swoosh and then there's nothing but silence. Yet not two minutes later, Sherlock drops down to his knees and the sheets are yanked upwards again.

'You're _really_ not going to come out? Not even for, say…' Sherlock's voice sweetens considerably. 'An _extra_ special treat?' Deliberate and cautious, a hand snakes out and deliciously teases a few lucky strands of hair and Jim trembles before he can stop himself.

Damn it, he is not folding that easily! He refuses to. The wonderfully yummy touch is gratifying, yes, but not quite repentant enough that it overrides his bad mood. Jim's affections cannot, and will not, be bought with a couple seconds of half-assed pampering. Nuh-uh. He has more pride than that.

Angered by his susceptibility even to barefaced manipulation, the pup stubbornly shakes off the detective's contact, looking very, very put out.

'Oh, don't act like you're not interested,' Sherlock disparages. 'You love your belly scratchies.'

Not today, he doesn't.

Jim grits his teeth and juts out his chin, wrinkled frown intensifying. He cannot be bribed by the promise of bloody belly scratchies. He _won't_.

Except-

Jim exhales roughly.

Heat pools in his belly and he has to curb the heave of excitement because dammit, if that doesn't sound like a gooey pile of belly scratchies heaven.

Frustrated and confused, he reflexively looks to Sherlock for guidance, but he seizes his chance and takes the glance for confirmation, and the next thing Jim knows the man's fingers have barely grazed his tummy before he's feverishly clambering out and hurdling onto the taller man's lap.

Maybe just one _teeny_ rub.

Making an impatient sound halfway between a growl and a moan, he twists and squirms, giving a curt gasp as Sherlock's clever hands engulf his belly, scattering scrupulous, finely tuned scratches, before relaxing into ear-popping bliss.

The roaming fingers ignite surges of unadulterated pleasure as Sherlock wraps an arm around his body to steady him and exhaustively caresses the puppy's nerve-endings.

Jim's breaths turn rapid and thin and his tongue flops out as another hand pierces his hairline. He arches into the touch and stomps his foot, unable to think about anything other than Sherlock tinkering with his hypersensitive nervous system.

'Who's a good boy? You are. Oh, yes, you are.' Sherlock has never spoken to him in such babyish tones before, but bearing the load of a 140-pound, human drool-generator, an outbreak of affection seems inevitable.

With shuddering exhales, the former consulting criminal salivates over his ex-nemesis' sleeve and mewls in uncontrollable ecstasy. Never has he felt the utter abandonment of his humanity so acutely, and yet, Jim can't bring himself to feel alarmed.

Not when he's on the brink of paradise and it feels like he's one wild spasm away from the throes of an orgasm, despite not sporting even a semi hard-on.

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a miracle that he's not the tiniest bit dissatisfied, but this isn't ordinary; it's…it's an unstoppable, devastating frenzy.

After ten minutes or so, Sherlock's strokes become slower and less expansive, and Jim begins to wind down, dissolving against the other man's chest with heavy lids and long, sleepy blinks.

'Aww,' Sherlock murmurs, stroking his damp locks as Jim's chin tips downward. 'Is the little puppy all tuckered out?'

He doesn't respond. Nor is he expected to.

Jim simply nestles closer, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

 **...**

With each new day, his resistance is hammered down further into the alcoves of his subconscious and Sherlock can see how Jim gradually relaxes into his role and fights his instincts less and less, responding to stimuli much more naturally. He adapts to his environment and his situation and more than that, Jim slowly adapts to his new sense of self and forgets about his old way of living.

It isn't about 'giving in,' or, 'being defeated.' It isn't about _winning_.

It is simply reacting. Wearing his canine nature like a second skin and playing because he feels like playing.

* * *

 **-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

 **-0-o-0-o-0-**

 **-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

 _Thanks for reading. Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2: Retrained.**

For the purpose of maintaining a healthy, balanced diet, he is allowed 'human food.' His anatomy isn't canine at its core, after all, so puppy kibble is off the menu.

The funky cuisine still _looks_ repulsive, though.

At best, he's presented with dry cereal that crunches as he chows it down. At worst, a sloppy, wet meat-like substance from something like a can that slips down his throat and smells like beef and feet.

If there is one thing he's learned from the entire ordeal it is that anything can and will, be mashed up and whirled in a blender. Sherlock tries to make the pulverized combinations as painless as possible, but Christ, they are something else. He gagged at first and refused to come within ten feet of the slushy, pungent grub, but after several days, the gnawing hunger won out and he wolfed it down as quick as he could without undergoing the torment of actually tasting it.

Sometimes, Sherlock will shred off a portion of his toast to share or sneak him parts of his tea under the table while John's not looking. Whether it's crisp apple slices, juicy orange segments, or lumps of punchy cheese, Jim will scoff it down happily, in the cheeriest of moods for the remainder of the day. Come to think of it, he's surprised the doctor's not more suspicious. Or maybe he is. Maybe he's simply indulging Sherlock or turning a blind eye on their co-op's to avoid an argument. He does that sometimes. It can be hard to tell.

It's all taken directly from the detective's hand, of course, and is accompanied by a light pat on the head, but who cares when it's that scrumptious.

Fresh water is readily available and if he's been really, _really_ good, Sherlock will tilt his cup towards him and let Jim lap at his hot tea.

But whenever Sherlock is, well, otherwise occupied, whereby he's thinking, or, erm, thinking or, hmm…lemme see… _thinking_ , and his tea has been abandoned somewhere out of reach and is rapidly cooling, then Jim has little choice but to intervene. Especially when he himself is craving caffeine like an itch and cannot bear to see Mrs Hudson's kind efforts go to waste.

Well. Actually. He doesn't care so much about Mrs Hudson. Frankly, he couldn't give a shit. But he wants his tea, dammit.

It starts with a timid tongue jabbing his hand.

Sherlock usually dismisses it as juvenile attention-seeking, so it's doubtful he'll react at first. Thus, Jim quickly moves onto Stage Two. Which is to glide said tongue over said hand until said hand shoves him off, with a crotchety, 'Go away. Thinking.'

But Jim doesn't back down that easily. This is prime time for getting his own way.

He whines, loud and annoying-like, until Sherlock exhales forcefully and barks, 'What? Can't you see I'm busy? I can't play with you right now, pup.' Jim yaps as if that's the single-most heartbreaking thing he's heard all day. 'This is important; a matter of national security, in fact. I wouldn't expect you to understand. Go shred another one of John's ugly cardigan's if you're bored. I don't care. Christ, you'd be doing the whole bloody world a favour. You have my approval.'

Now that he has his attention - and irritation - Jim pitifully slugs the consulting detective's trousers with a doleful expression and wide, dewy eyes and the classic, limp paw, watching on as Sherlock exaggeratedly rolls his eyes.

'You're doing that thing again. The needy, pathetic routine. Why would y-Oh.' Sherlock snatches the mug from the fireplace and dumps it at Jim's feet, splashing a mouthful of tea in a tanned, circle-lipped puddle. 'Here you go. Now shoo.'

Jim is pleasantly surprised to find that the tea is very nearly lukewarm this time.

 **...**

He's not proud of it, but Jim found a mangled biscuit on the floor today... and he ate it.

 **...**

John's got a new girlfriend, so he's not around so much. Sherlock sulks and squabbles about stupid things that Jim gets bored listening to and tunes out while lounging on the sofa and drooling over his squidgy rubber bone that peeps when he presses down on it. But John remains loyal to his partner in solving crime, so he's bound to run out of things to gripe about soon - right? _Right_?

He doesn't.

 **...**

There used to be a black and white plastic bowl with little silhouetted skulls trimming the border, but then Jim got into the unfortunate habit of chewing the sides, hoisting it up within his jowl and vigorously shaking it back and forth. Now and again, he'd even hurl the hollow disk into the air like a Frisbee with a tactless jerk of the head, once shattering several, overturned mugs drying on the counter. One of which was John's. A present from his sister.

He was not happy.

One day he lopes over only to discover that his favourite, unconventional toy has been replaced with a bleak, stainless steel bowl, which John warns is for mealtimes only.

Jim stares at John blankly until he groans.

Like they can stop him from doing it.

 **...**

He is reviewing cold cases of Lestrade's when he feels warmth settle against his lower half. Sherlock glimpses downward to find Jim doing his best impression of melding himself to his leg, hiding his face and sluggishly nuzzling into the man's shin. He always does this when he's feeling sorry for himself.

Sherlock sighs. 'No. Don't tell me.' At his voice, there is a slight stirring. 'Did someone bang his head off the table chasing his ball again?' He knew he'd heard something earlier. But he's assumed it was nothing of consequence - John stubbing his toe or something. Despite the fact that the doctor isn't even in the flat, but off on one of his dull date-nights.

Jim whimpers.

He lightly cups the pup's face and eases his head off his kneecap, and sure enough, there on his forehead is a dirty, discolouring bruise. Sherlock skims a gentle thumb over the yellowish mark and retreats at Jim's inward hiss. He tries to pull away, but Sherlock takes hold of him under the armpits and hoists the smaller man onto his lap.

'You're such a rowdy puppy, aren't you? I can't look away for two seconds,' Sherlock remarks with a disapproving downturn of the lips.

Jim hunches his shoulders and hangs his head, trying to make himself look as small as possible. The move causes Sherlock to frown. Jim can never hide his true feelings. While before he could project whatever image of himself he felt like, now he's trapped in the ever-changing _present_ where he acts purely on impulse rather than rationality and there are so many sights and smells and games to play and stuff to do, that he works himself into a whole tizzy.

Jim is all too-aware of how scarily intimidating he _isn't_. Toss him a squeaky toy, he'll love you forever. Shower him with attention and he turns to mush.

It takes Sherlock a second to understand his reaction.

Jim is…he's ashamed.

Ashamed of darting after a ball and swooping under a table without a second thought, of hurting himself and seeking out Sherlock (cold and detached _Sherlock_ ) for comfort. But perhaps most of all, he's ashamed of himself for actually needing it. And Sherlock feels…bad.

'Hey, hey,' he softens his voice, grasping Jim's chin and lifting it upwards, 'It's okay. I'm not mad. Accidents happen.' He smiles as Jim burrows into his chest and rubs the pup's back. It's as close to reassuring as Sherlock gets.

After a few minutes of contentment, Sherlock grows agitated thinking about his stack of goodies and longs to resume leafing through the potential goldmine of cases in the hopes something interesting crops up.

He hesitates in indecision, but when Jim starts wriggling, he realises the puppy is also getting restless, having failed to release his day's worth of pent-up energy.

'Okay. That's it,' he briskly declares. 'Snuggle time is officially over. Why don't you go play fetch or something? Yes - fetch. Do that. Look,' he fake gasps, as he pulls the long string of cloth out from underneath him and brandishes it. 'It's John's woolly scarf! That look like fun? Yeah? Go get it.' He casts the hand-knitted scarf onto the floor and points to it. 'Quick. Get it before he comes home.'

Not one to pass up the chance for mischief when he's getting permission, Jim hops down and sets to work.

When John comes back to a messy flat with balls of fluff coasting along the floor and several ripped up cushions with the stuffing pouring out and strewn around them, he almost blows a fuse.

There are several downy feathers sticking to Jim's hair, so it doesn't take a genius to guess the culprit, and, besides that, well, he's basically been caught red-handed what with John's scarf hanging from his mou - hang on. _His scarf._

'No! Bad dog! Drop it. Drop it right now.' His stern words have zero effect.

Head held high, Jim prances off into Sherlock's bedroom with the scarf scooting after him while John gapes and splutters, turning a worrying shade of red and looking like there should be steam wafting from his ears.

Sherlock doubles over and laughs himself breathless.

 **...**

That's not the only time John gets the worst end of the stick.

If accused, Sherlock would deny it, but sometimes they like to gang up on the good-natured doctor.

When John dares put on those mind-numbing soaps while Jim is in the living room, hard at work mauling the replacement bear for the last one he'd slaughtered, he springs up and barks in protest, with a glower that could burn down an entire village.

Sherlock is equally affronted. 'John! Why did you have to put that on for? Do you wilfully make it your mission in life to rot my brain cells or are you just _that much_ of an imbecile?'

Jim barks again, and Sherlock quietens him with a sympathetic, 'Yes. It is horrendously dim-witted, isn't it? John _should_ know better.' He then covers Jim's ears as if to protect him from the horrors on the TV screen, while John rolls his eyes, but Jim can make out the muffled babble of heavily-accented voices and see the terrible acting for himself.

'That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? What's the matter with it?' John asks, uncomprehending. 'Mrs Hudson said it was really good this week. There's an explosion and everything. Thought that would be right up your alley.'

'No, John. I like real explosions. _Real_ explosions with real agendas and _real_ puzzles. Not the poorly executed, appallingly unrealistic sort on the telly. Turn it off.'

'Fine. _Fine_ ,' he grumbles, digging for the remote, wedged under the cushion. The monitor goes black. 'But only because _he_ ,' he jabs a thumb in Jim's direction, 'is looking bloody murderous. I'd like to keep the skin _on_ my face, thank you very much.' John's eyes fleetingly slide to the scattered carcass of the teddy bear and he grimaces.

'Wise choice,' drawls Sherlock. 'Wouldn't want to provoke him.' He angles himself slightly to the left and winks discreetly at Jim, whose chest puffs up in pride. He was starting to worry he was losing his touch.

From then on, Jim learns that while John may be immune to his tragic puppy-dog eyes, the bloodthirsty psychopath glare comes with a ninety-three percent success rate. Sherlock doesn't _vocally_ condemn his actions, so he keeps doing it. And it works.

 **...**

The constant hunting and chasing and frolicking around their rather poky flat is starting to become a problem.

'You shouldn't keep him cooped up inside so long,' Mrs Hudson had fretted. 'Poor dear will be bouncing off the walls in no time. Just you wait and see.'

Sherlock, of course, paid her little heed, but John couldn't help but wonder if she had a point. How _were_ they going to handle the increasingly lively Jim? They didn't have the space for him play to his little heart's content and right there, they had an issue, because Jim _loves_ playing. Digging, chewing, wrecking havoc - it's all one big game to him.

It's all well and good for Sherlock. But John actually _tries_ to keep the flat reasonably tidy and Jim…well…he's not exactly conducive to that.

Every day he's becoming more and more…Hell, there's no other way to say it - he acts just like a real puppy. That energy needs to be burned off somehow.

It gets to the point where he simply can't ignore it any longer.

John is reading the newspaper on his armchair when he becomes aware of Jim sprawled out on his stomach and fumbling under the chair. Raising an unimpressed brow, he raps his fingers against the armrest and waits until bashful, blinking eyes peek up at him.

'What are you doing?' he questions, flatly.

Jim grunts in displeasure and his arm disappears under the chair once more.

' _Again_?'

The pup gives a low whine, causing John to noisily exhale. He leverages himself with one hand and leans forward, peering into the dust-speckled dimness. Sticking a hand under and scooping out the slobber-coated ball, he grumbles, 'Maybe if you stopped dashing about all over the place, you wouldn't have this problem.' But Jim only sits back, not looking very chastised.

He clomps into the kitchen and rinses off the dust and dirt. 'Here,' he sighs, tossing the ball gently to the overeager puppy and watching him bound away with a frown.

Something has to be done, that much is clear.

John can't let this go on.

Over dinner, he mentions his concerns to Sherlock, but he's texting on his phone and only half-listening. Jim, on the other hand, is all ears. Eavesdropping from his basket, the pup's expression distorts with fear and mistrust and thinly-veiled anger. That's when John realises they need to be more careful about what they say around him.

Sometimes they forget he's still got the remnants of _Jim Moriarty_ in there and takes in a helluva lot more than they give him credit for. And judging by his face, he is _not_ amused.

But John suspects that his apprehension is more of a result of uncertainty and a reluctance for change than anything else and he'd feel more at ease once they find a solution that doesn't involve parading him up and down the streets of London.

It's Mycroft, in the end, that comes to save the day.

'I hear you are unhappy with your current arrangements,' he notes upon entry, tapping his umbrella against the hard wood and examining it with thoughtful, narrowed features.

'What are you on ab…Ah,' John nods, lips compressing, 'You've been spying on us.'

'Naturally.' He blinks. 'My brother decided to house a mass-murderer. What did you expect?'

'I don't know. A little privacy, perhaps? Trust that we knew what we were doing?' The army doctor gazes back steadily, traces of frustration trickling into his cooled voice. 'Doesn't seem like much to ask for. But, then - you never have been very reasonable.'

'I understand your irritation, Dr. Watson,' Mycroft responds, unruffled. 'But I couldn't simply sit back and do nothing. While I have tried to be supportive of my brother's various endeavours, I recognised the need for extra precaution. You should be glad I did.'

'Oh? And why is that?'

'Sherlock would never have willingly informed me of your…' He smirks, eyes scanning the broad selection of chew toys that have seen better days and half-masticated items littering the floor, 'recent quandary, of sorts. I thought I may be of some assistance.'

' _You_?' John doesn't even try to conceal his reaction, snorting in disbelief, 'What are you gonna do?'

Mycroft smartly chooses to let the insultingly sceptical tone slide. 'There is a private estate,' he explains, twirling his umbrella at the point. 'Where I often go to burn off a few unwelcome calories,' One thing for sure, John is exceptionally glad Sherlock's not around for _that_ one, 'It is a brief, twenty minute drive out of London. Very rural and _very_ remote. I would pass on the address, but I'm sure such a thing is unnecessary. Sherlock would be very displeased if he were to hear that I doubted his acuity. Transport will arrive at six o'clock precisely tomorrow morning. Do come prepared.'

And then he's bidding farewell, leaving John scratching his head.

Uncertain what to expect, John purchases an extendable leash and rouses an uncooperative Jim before dawn, barely getting him ready on time. He clips the leash into place two minutes before six and then stands by the door, fidgeting. Jim yawns, but watches him curiously from sleepy, half-mast eyes.

As promised, a black town car with dark, tinted windows rolls up at six on the dot, and John is soon faced with the unpleasant task of coaxing a pale-faced Jim to get in. Somewhere along the way, it appears that the ex-consulting criminal has become almost…almost _afraid_ of the purring vehicle and he trembles hard under John's reassuring touch.

'Oh, save it, John!' Twin heads snap up at the deep, belligerent voice. 'You're doing it all wrong.'

Fully clad in his usual coat and scarf, Sherlock steps out of 221B and Jim immediately wriggles to get free of John's loose grip. As if there is nothing unusual or shocking about his sudden appearance, Sherlock casually strolls up to them, only to find his arms quickly laden with the full weight of one exultant pup.

He picks him up and sets Jim down in the back seat, sliding in beside him shortly after and struggling to slot into place the seatbelt of the squirming puppy, who wants nothing more than to lick his favourite face. John hops in and shuts the door behind him, staring at the two.

Turns out, Jim wasn't scared of the car at all.

His nervousness had nothing to do with where he was going or what mode of transportation he'd be going in. It was all down to what - or rather who - John was forcing him to leave, without any assurance he'd be back.

Sherlock catches his baffled look. 'You didn't _really_ think I was going to stay behind, did you?' he asks haughtily, the effect lessened somewhat by the fact that he is rubbing Jim's head as he presses up against him, lips curling fondly.

John doesn't answer. He simply settles back and smiles, marvelling: Sherlock Holmes - closet mother-hen.

 _Who knew?_

 **...**

In the months (or has it been a year?) he's been living with him, Jim had replaced Sherlock's skull, which he has been relying on more and more heavily since John's relationship with Mary started getting serious. He trusted Jim and confided in him, and the first time Sherlock confessed to conversing with him while he was out (forgetting the pup was with John on his morning walkies, a regular occurrence after their first successful trip), Jim had felt honoured.

People tend to talk _at_ Jim rather than to him, and it was nice to feel included in Sherlock's ponderings, even if it really wasn't all that different.

The unofficial post is something Jim takes incredibly seriously.

Which is why, when Sherlock begins actively ignoring Jim after he accidentally destroyed a key piece evidence for a case - despite John arguing that Sherlock should never have left the damn evidence on the coffee table in the first place if he didn't want the pup to nick it - and consults his forsaken skull for answers, Jim is distraught.

He doesn't think it's _fair_ that Sherlock is blaming him, because he didn't destroy it on purpose. Honest. A few months ago? Unquestionably. The ultimate opportunity for the pettiest revenge? A beautiful sabotage? _From the inside_ , no less. Oh, yeah. Anything to cause Sherlock a little grief.

There would have been no way he could pass that up. But this time, he truly couldn't help himself - and isn't that what Sherlock had wanted? Isn't this precisely the kind of playful conduct his old enemy had groomed him for? To be a slave to his puppy instincts? To have no prudence or concept of morality so that the detective could easily modify his behaviour to suit himself? This is what _Sherlock_ drove him to. Under his own laid-back guidance and unwillingness to discipline. Jim simply didn't understand it was wrong. He'd needed Sherlock to _tell_ him it was wrong. And that is possibly the worst part of it all.

He won't lie. A large part of Jim is angry. Resentful, even.

But there is another side. A sad side.

The side that tugs on Sherlock's trousers even though he knows he's going to get rejected. The one that butts him with his nose and crumples his forehead remorsefully, big brown eyes begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what? Sometimes he's not even sure. But he can't take Sherlock being so mad at him.

That's the side that fears, however irrationally, that one day Sherlock will get sick of his mischief and his naughtiness and the huge responsibility, tired of the perpetual puppy that ruins everything, and kick him out.

He doesn't do that, though. He doesn't kick him. But it still feels like a blow to the chest when Sherlock dusts off that lifeless skull - _a skull_ is better than him, - and confides in it instead.

Jim's self-confidence hits an all-time low.

He creeps out into the hallway and stoops down in a tight ball on the stairs. Even though the seclusion is of his own accord, he still feels like he's being punished and for the first time in a long time, Jim wishes he could talk again. Explain himself. Maybe then…maybe then Sherlock would-

He whines softly. Who is he kidding? It wouldn't make any difference.

Jim chews on the tail of his stuffed orca and sighs despondently. _Face it_ , he thinks to himself. Puppies are replaceable. _You_ are replaceable. You're nothing but a nasty nuisance, a stupid animal.

He stays there on the steps with his head bent down, pushing into something sharp. It's not too uncomfortable so he doesn't move, and even when the pressure starts to feel a lot like pain, he stays there, because deep down, he fears he deserves it.

It could be days, it could be hours, time means nothing to stupid animals, but Jim hears a low groan on the landing and flicks a glance upwards to see Sherlock standing in the entryway with a tight expression.

It's pathetic how his heart wrenches in yearning, cautiously hopeful. _I'll be good now_ , he tries to convey in his large, earnest eyes. _I promise._

It's not clear what kind of mood he's in, but Sherlock's eyebrows are drawn and his mouth is set in a fixed, unhappy line. The signs aren't great. Finally, he crouches down beside Jim, who shies away, and lightly grazes his fingers across his cheek. When he pulls away, Jim is startled to see a blur of red on the side of the man's palm and glistening dots of blood on his index finger.

'Jim,' Sherlock mutters, a pained sound. 'What am I going to do with you?'

Turns out, that sharp, pointy thing was an obtruding nail and it has broken the surface of his skin, transferring a lovely jagged cut onto Jim's cheek.

'We need to get that cleaned up. Fortunately, Dr. Watson is your typical worrywart and keeps several medical kits equipped with antiseptic wipes. Let's go.'

Jim hesitates.

Bewildered, Sherlock prompts, 'Come on. What are you waiting for?' But Jim still doesn't move, he's not sure what to make of the sudden kindness. It takes a full minute before understanding dawns on Sherlock and he instantly wishes it hadn't.

Sherlock actually _grimaces_ and the pitying and slightly guilty lookwhich dominates his customarily superior features, makes Jim shift uncomfortably. His voice is so very gentle as he reaches out to lovingly stroke his scalp. 'It's alright, Jim. It wasn't your fault. I was careless. You're a good boy,' he's crooning now, _crooning_ , and scratching behind Jim's ear, 'you're such a good boy.'

Jim doesn't believe him.

 _Bad, bad. I was bad. M'sorry. I'm really sorry._

Sherlock smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, 'You are. You're such a good puppy. C'mere. It's okay.' With some effort, he scoops him up, cradling him closely, and Jim nuzzles into his neck, 'There we go. That's it. Good boy.'

With the sharp scent of Sherlock so robust around him, positively engulfing him, Jim can't fight the urge to polish between the librtated buttons of his shirt collar with a slobbery tongue in another apology. 'Yes,' Sherlock says dully, wrinkling his nose, 'thank-you. That's very nice of you. But do you mind stopping? That tickles.'

Jim carries on, knowing that there's nothing Sherlock can do about it with his arm's full.

What can he say? He might as well take advantage of the situation while he can. He's no angel.

The detective carries Jim into his room and settles him down on his bed. Then he nips to the bathroom and rummages around for the first-aid box. He returns in under a minute and perches on the mattress, popping the lid and releasing the biting aroma of antiseptic. He pilfers one of the damp wipes and carefully daubs Jim's cheek, drawing back when he winces. 'It's okay, it's alright. Hold still. We're nearly done.'

The soothing mantra isn't of much benefit, because although, the wound doesn't hurt all _that_ much, - or at all, really - Jim can't seem to will himself to sit still and endure it. He whimpers and squirms and buries his head in the blankets, but Sherlock takes his time in an extraordinary show of patience. Jim isn't proud of his reaction, but if it scores him some additional pity points…Then at least his pride isn't dented for nothing.

Afterwards, back in the living room, Sherlock pats the empty space beside him and says, 'Up,' encouraging Jim to jump onto the forbidden furniture (it's only really forbidden when Sherlock feels like it, he's not very consistent in his reinforcement, he never is). The pup rests his head on the detective's lap while he mulls over his latest crisis and dozes off, only to be gracelessly displaced a couple hours later when Sherlock leaps up in a silent _eureka_ , having forgotten his presence.

It seems all is right in the world.

And if, during his usual romping around the flat three days later, Sherlock's precious skull happens to topple to the floor and fracture into three, worthless, sandy pieces, then it was nothing more than a happy accident and there's no reason for anyone to suspect otherwise.

 **...**

Jim loves pretending to be confused. He'll cock his head, crinkle his brows, paw at the floor like it holds all the answers, and just generally get away with murder.

Like when he's snoozing in front of the crackling fire and languidly stretches out with his arms shuddering in front of him, joints popping and a wide, high-pitched yawn escaping his lips. 'Jim! Jim, move! You're blocking the telly again! Jim! _Jim_!' He snuffles, glances back at John nonchalantly, and lies down again.

Or the time Sherlock was attempting to towel dry his brown locks and he kept playfully rumbling and tugging the coarse towel back and forth between his teeth (after shaking off the water on Sherlock, that is). 'For the last time, I am not playing tug-of-war with you! Leave it. You need your hair dried, stupid. Stop that! You're going to catch a cold!' That was a lie and they both knew it. Sherlock swiftly changed tactics. 'Hey, you want a treat? Yeah? Yeah? Then stop it.' He let go of the cloth and stumbled back, as if upset by the heated tone. Sherlock immediately sagged as if all the fight had gone out of him and Jim didn't get a treat that night. He got three.

Then there's the day that Jim collapses in his basket for a nap, - crashing and crashing _hard_ after a tough day's work barking at the swallow that had dared build her nest on the windowsill of _his_ territory, - and his eyes pinch when he realises the formerly bumpy surface is now entirely comfy and smooth. 'Yes, I moved your stash,' Sherlock reveals, referring to the abundance of treasures Jim had hoarded under his blankets (aka, soggy chew toys, half-eaten food, and a few missing socks of John's. That solves that mystery). 'And by moved, I mean binned. It was disgusting.' He flicks him a lazy glance. 'Problem?' Lips wobbling, Jim yowls mournfully and sniffles as if to say, _But I was saving them._ His eyes are so big and so sad and confused, that Sherlock spends the rest of the day trying to make it up to him. All the while attempting to explain why it was a necessary evil and that he really shouldn't do it again.

So, yes, Jim loves acting confused. It means he never has to correct his behaviour or apologise for anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3: Rewarded.**

John would likely disapprove, but for the last several months, Jim has been sleeping in the consulting detective's bed. He has a large, perfectly snug basket for napping, but more often that not, he'll curl up beside Sherlock. It's not like Sherlock hasn't tried to stop him; he has. Even locked his door to keep him out.

But Jim whimpered and howled and clawed at the wood until his nails broke and bled.

So he leaves it open a crack for the puppy to push through and merely throws an arm over his face and groans whenever Jim sneaks in in the middle of the night with his orca dangling from his mouth and snuggles up beside him.

 **…**

One evening, John stomps up the stairs and bursts into the flat, bellowing, 'SHERLOCK! Did you make Anderson _cry_ at a crime scene today?! You are _un_ believable - you know that? Only _you_ could be so bloody horrible!'

'Shhh!'

The dismissive hush pulls him up short for about three seconds, before he grits through his teeth, ' _Sherlock_ -'

Sherlock plucks another string, repeating more critically, ' _Shhhh!'_

There is an audible snap of John's jaw, nostrils flaring. 'Sherlock Holmes, do _not_ shush me-'

Finally tears his gaze away from his violin, Sherlock butts in, _'Keep your voice down_.' His voice is a harsh, demanding whisper, and he nods to where Jim is curled at his feet, tense and wide-eyed, gaze flitting between the two men. 'You're scaring the pup.'

'Me?' John says in disbelief, poking his chest. ' _I'm_ scaring the pup? Do you even -' He smears a hand across his mouth. 'You were _here_ last Monday? You were, weren't you? I'm not making that up? Because I seem to recall a God-awful screeching coming from a certain someone's violin that I swear could be heard from the other side of London.'

'That was different.'

'So he wasn't scared, then? That's what you're saying? He didn't… I don't know - cower under the bed or anything? Because that's where I found him.'

'He was hiding from Mycroft,' he replies dryly. Sherlock raises his violin in front of his face and inspects the polished wood, before holding it to his ear and shaking it a little. 'Frankly, I don't blame him - does this sound off to you?' He pulls another string and tweaks the pegs, mouth broodingly pursing.

'I don't think it was Mycroft he was afraid of.'

'How do you know? You've seen my brother. Wouldn't you run, too?'

A ghost of smile appears on John's lips. 'It may have been a combination of the two,' he admits, before turning serious. 'But you should be more careful where you host your little brotherly spats in future. Jim is not a fan. Of Mycroft _or_ your violin playing.'

'He'll acclimatize,' he argues, stressing, 'To both.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. But bear it in mind, yeah?'

Sherlock sighs and grudgingly agrees, 'If you insist.' Then, snatching his bow and aligning the instrument under his chin, he mumbles, 'He likes Bach.'

'Jim's favourite, I know,' John mollifies, turning to the door. 'Oh, and Sherlock?' He waits until he has his full attention. 'Apologise to Anderson, will you?'

Sherlock resumes playing, but not before flipping him the finger.

 **…**

'What's puppy doing, huh? What's puppy at?'

In recent weeks, Sherlock has taken to speaking to Jim in the silliest of tones when he's in an upbeat mood, particularly after several nicotine patches or whenever he's in the midst of an exceptionally thrilling case, rallying around with a slight bounce to his step and a grin that looks too jolly to logically fit on his face.

Lately Jim himself has been responding even more positively to the belittling baby-talk, preening at the attention and rolling over at the drop of a hat. 'Silly puppy. You just want to play, don't you? Such a cutie. Such a little cutie.' He furiously rubs the pup's belly and scratches under his chin. Jim goes wild. He drools over Sherlock's wrist (and by association, his impressive, shiny watch), and joyously kicks his paws.

Any other day, and he would have been alerted to their company instantly, but today he is hundreds of miles away, floating on cloud nine. He doesn't hear a thing.

'Well, that's just creepy,' Lestrade mumbles as he freezes at the door, John hovering awkwardly behind him. Both heads snap around.

Clearing his throat and sitting back, while Jim wriggles out from underneath him to survey their guest, Sherlock responds coolly, 'Nothing wrong with it, Detective Inspector.' His expression is stony, but Jim can tell he's a little caught off guard and he wonders how no-one else notices it. 'It's just a bit of fun.'

'Yeah, well, there's fun,' the police officer counters, 'and then there's too much fun. If you catch my drift.'

Sherlock bristles and this time the defensiveness is detected at once. 'I don't think I like what you're implying, Lestrade. He's a pup. Isn't this what people do? Lavish them with attention?'

'Alright, alright,' Lestrade appears to recognise that he's hit upon a sore spot and raises his hands in surrender, 'Don't get your panties in a twist. I don't actually care. Just gave me a bit of start, that's all. I can mind my own business.'

'Then knock next time.'

'He did,' John cuts in, looking apologetic. 'You never answered. I was just crossing the street when he got here, so I let him up. Thought you were out.'

'Oh. Well.' Sherlock visibly shakes himself. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, he enquires with a sneer, 'What did you need? Run into a spot of trouble in your investigation? _Again_.'

Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief at the return to normalcy and immediately launches into his explanation as Jim picks up his squeaky toy, protruding from his bulging mouth, and carries it over to the corner, flopping down and bracing himself for days, maybe _weeks_ , of Sherlock's divided attention.

He decides he hates having his belly scratchies interrupted and he's not too fond of the copper, either. It's his fault Sherlock gets so many cases. If he weren't so stupid, if only he were better at his job, then Jim would have his pet detective all to himself.

Except for John, that is. But their friendship doesn't inconvenience him _too_ much. Not when John's got a girlfriend.

 **…**

They've always made a point to reward Jim for good behaviour. Treats doled out in the form of two or three mint sweets, a rich-tea biscuit, or a bone-shaped cookie. Sherlock is always most generous while he's in demand and this time is no exception.

Jim is spoiled rotten with a range of delicacies to make up for the consulting detective's absences; never needing to bat an eyelash or make goo-goo eyes to get what he wants.

The only thing Sherlock won't budge on is the strict ban on chocolate. Jim's never been allowed chocolate. But it doesn't feel like he's missing out. Truth is, he's forgotten what it tastes like.

 **…**

Four days after the incident with Lestrade, John brings round takeaway to make sure Sherlock's eating while working on the case.

It's obvious he feels guilty about staying at Mary's so often, so the night is more geared towards male-bonding and easing his own conscience than purely making sure Sherlock takes a much-needed break, though that's definitely part of it.

They catch up over an hour-long documentary about melting solar icecaps and drowning polar bears, which doesn't really appeal to either of them, yet no-one changes it over. (Sherlock is too stubborn to agree to a compromise, preferring they suffer equally, and John doesn't seem to have very high standards when it comes to telly, anyway.)

Jim grows bored of the depressing story and dodgy reporting pretty quickly, and begins nudging Sherlock with his nose. He hasn't been feed yet and the thick smell of their greasy takeaway is making his stomach growl. He smacks his lips and there is the wet slap of a tongue stirring. Without even looking, Sherlock tears off a huge chunk of his burger, at least half, and allows Jim to sink his teeth into the red meat and soft, seedy bap, daintily nibbling from his hand.

John frowns, glancing between the two of them for several moments. 'Is that a wise idea?' he finally asks. When Sherlock appears confused, he tacks on, 'Giving him your food. Should you be doing that?'

'Why? What's wrong with it?'

'It just doesn't…He shouldn't really _have_ those sorts of foods. Especially when he's not used to it.'

'But look at him, John,' Sherlock wheedles with a near-pout. Right then, Jim makes a special effort to look pathetic. 'He likes it!'

'It won't…I don't know. Give him a tummy ache or something?'

'You're acting like this is the first time the pup's gotten indigestion. Remember that chicken casserole Mrs Hudson baked last week? He _loved_ it. Gobbled it down in seconds. Nearly choked, poor darling. I've warned him not to eat so quickly, but obviously he never listens. A crushed up rennie in one of his meals usually does the trick.'

John is shocked. 'You've been feeding him your leftovers? All this time?'

'Not leftovers, John,' Sherlock corrects with annoyance. 'My _dinners_. I don't have time to fritter away eating and sleeping. There's too much to do. And I had to do _something_ with the casserole. I couldn't just leave it in the fridge to rot. You know how it upsets Mrs Hudson. Besides, I needed the space for my sheep stomachs. The freezer's full.'

'Sherlock…'

'Spare me the lecture, will you, John? It was a couple of times.' He rolls his eyes. 'Honestly. I hardly think it matters.'

'It matters a whole lot to me,' John counters. 'And it _should_ matter to you, too.'

'Well - it doesn't. Get over it. I eat enough, I'm not dead yet. Look - my ribs have yet to make an appearance since you showed up. Doesn't that count as progress?' Funny thing is, Sherlock thinks he's being comforting. 'Seriously, John. You've got nothing to worry about.'

Exhaling wearily, John stabs his food with his fork, the screech of metal scraping against the plate piercing the air.

'Sure, I don't,' he mutters sourly. 'Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.'

 **…**

Across the street from the flat, a crowd of luminous jacket-wearing men have been labouring since five a.m. sharp. Sherlock wasn't the only one jarred out of a peaceful night's rest by the sudden thunderous convulsions as they drilled deep into the heart of the earth, and owns up to feeling more than a little cross himself, but his own mild inconvenience doesn't come close to rivalling the wrath which has permeated Jim ever since.

At first, it was rather comical how the pup sprinted up and parked himself at the foot of the window, but then he simply…stayed there. Staring… Barking. And just generally being an illogically angry pain in the ass.

Jim appears to have made it his sole duty to express his displeasure. Vocally. Constantly. Forever, it seems.

Sherlock humours him; it's easier than intervening.

Pausing in puzzlement when he arrives at the flat with an armful of groceries after staying at Mary's the night before, John hesitates, before enquiring, 'What…what is he doing?'

'Jim? Oh, he's been like that all morning. By my estimate, we are approaching the..' Sherlock glimpses at the clock. 'Fifth hour, it seems.'

'The - the _fifth_?' he cries in disbelief. 'You're joking.'

Sherlock makes a concurring thrum at the back of his throat. 'Yes. He's very dedicated, isn't he?'

'I'll say. Haven't you tried moving him?'

'I tried, John. Trust me - I tried. It was…not an improvement.'

At that moment, the drilling stutters to a halt and before either man can breathe a sigh of relief, it starts up again, impossibly more deafening than before. Sitting up on his knees, ram-rod straight and scowling darkly, Jim kneads the floor with irritation and yaps for the thousandth time.

'Uh-huh, puppy,' Sherlock says indulgingly, flipping onto the next page of his book. 'You tell 'em.'

John shoots him an incredulous look and stands in shock for a moment, before blustering, 'Well, no wonder he's still at it! Did you even _try_ to discourage him?'

'Why would I? It was funny.'

Jim barks again, swiping at the dirty window, who has taken the brunt of his anger - smudged with a whole compilation of misty prints.

'Yes, yes. I know. Loud noises are annoying,' Sherlock responds with a condescending eye roll while John scrubs his forehead and exhales noisily as if to say, _I can't believe this_. When the workmen then have _the audacity_ to turn on a thundering digger to winch up the piles of dirt, the pup glares over his shoulder at Sherlock in outrage. 'Yes, loud noises are _still_ annoying. What do you want me to do? Run out and yell at them in my dressing gown?' He chuckles. 'I don't think so.'

Jim honest-to-God _snarls_.

At John's gobsmacked expression, Sherlock explains offhandedly, 'Oh, you didn't know? I'm the reason anything bad has happened, or ever will happen, in the history of bad things happening. He blames me for everything. The other day, a fire engine flew past with the siren blasting and startled him out of sleep. Clearly my fault, yes? Jim certainly thought so. Even refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. Well,' he pauses, smirking, 'You know what I mean.'

John _hmm's_ , remarking wryly, 'Can't imagine what that's like. To have someone sulk irrationally for days on end with little prompting, blaming everyone and everything, and firing at the walls because he's bored again…Goodness, no. Sounds dreadful.'

'I recognise your sarcasm and I don't appreciate it.'

'Well,' John half-shrugs, 'You know what they say. That's karma for you.'

'Karma? _Karma_? Don't be ridiculous, John,' snaps Sherlock. 'As if I extend any faith towards something so preposterous as karma. _Ooh_ ,' he flutters a hand, faux-excitement written into his sunny features, 'I helped an old lady cross the street; now I'm sure to receive that promotion at work!' Abandoning the bubbly tone, he scoffs, 'Give me a break. Puppies have an incredibly abysmal understanding of cause and effect. That's all there is to it.'

'Alright.' John holds up his hands in a placating gesture and steps back. 'If you say so.'

'Don't you have groceries to unpack?' Sherlock says snidely, sitting forward and slamming down his book. 'They're not going to put themselves away, you know.' He surges to his feet and trudges out of the room, dressing gown flapping behind him.

It could be his imagination, but John swears he hears Jim make a huffy snigger from his vantage point at the window.

 **…**

Sherlock leaves on a Monday.

He hightails it out of the flat and he doesn't come home.

When John informs him that Sherlock had informed _him_ , via text, _'Had to stop off in New Mexico. Won't be long - SH,'_ Jim can only stand there in shock. Not only had Sherlock left, _left_ just like that, but he is hundreds and hundreds of miles away in another _continent_ all the way across the Atlantic.

Stunned and at a complete loss, he pads over to his basket and collapses in a mountain of confusion and hurt while this slivery sensation latches onto him and won't let go, a breathless quaking that he absolutely refuses to acknowledge is the result of panic and anxiety. The little world he's built for himself has tilted off kilter and he doesn't know what to do. The weight of John's worried eyes never leaves him, as he sits and stares at Sherlock's empty chair, cuddling his orca.

He doesn't eat. He barely sleeps.

At night, he howls to the point where Mrs Hudson stomps up the stairs at three a.m. to complain.

'What _on earth_ is going on up here?' she cries. 'Sounds like there's been a bloody murder.'

'I am so, so sorry, Mrs Hudson,' John apologises profusely, and hadn't he went to bed? 'Sherlock just upped and left this morning and he's…' He scratches his head, 'he's a little upset.'

 _'A little?'_ she repeats incredulously. 'That doesn't sound like a little, dear. No wonder he's making such a fuss. Poor thing must be scared out of his wits.' With a soft, sympathetic expression, she kneels down beside the still-whining Jim and eases her frown. 'It's alright, pet. He'll be home soon, don't you worry,' Mrs Hudson murmurs soothingly as she reaches out to rub his back, before directing over her shoulder to John, 'He's not used to sleeping on his own, I suppose?'

'Well, uh, no. I don't think so.'

'Maybe you should take his basket into your room,' she suggests. 'Just for tonight. Might help calm him down a little. Grab an old shirt of his, too, will you? Should do the trick.'

'You think so?'

'It's worth a try.' John leaves and hurries back with the sought-after item, and Mrs Hudson's smiles slightly as Jim's cries quieten down as she lays the shirt over his shoulders, before her brows knit once more. 'I'll be having words with that Sherlock one once he gets back,' she states sternly, 'Mark my words. We can't have him running off whenever he pleases. It's such a big disruption for this little one. Especially when it's so sudden. He's got responsibilities now, you know.'

'I know. I tried telling him.'

Mrs Hudson sighs. 'He's not one for listening, is he?'

'Nope. Never is.'

At that instant, Jim yawns and they spy his eyes drooping as he nuzzles under the shirt.

John blows out a slow breath of relief. 'Thank-you so much, Mrs Hudson,' he whispers. 'I honestly don't know what I would have done.'

'Don't mention it, dear,' she responds pleasantly, before heading to the door and adding over the shoulder, 'Though if it happens again, Sherlock's arse won't be the only one I'll be kicking.'

 **…**

Today is the day Sherlock is coming home and he can hardly wait.

Jim sits dutifully by the window and watches the commotion on the streets, and John leaves him to it. When the black cab finally pulls up in the early afternoon, his breaths stop altogether.

The door slams shut from downstairs and Jim skitters by the hallway in anticipation, to John's dismay. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at this point.

A familiar figure comes into view and Jim is overwhelmed by so many emotions, it would be impossible to pinpoint them all: joy, relief, adoration, a powerful gale of warmth.

'Come here, boy,' he says simply, patting his thighs and clicking his teeth, 'Come here.' Jim barrels towards him and wriggles in delight, stretching to dab a pink tongue over his chin. 'Who's a good boy? You are. Yes, you are.' He feels like he's going to puke he's so excited, brain short-circuiting with happiness.

 _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou'resoamazingandsmartandImissedyousomuchIloveyouloveyoulovelovelove_

'Alright, alright. Calm down,' Sherlock laughs. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Jim falls back, panting and grinning up at him in something like worship.

'Bit keyed up, isn't he?' Sherlock downplays, blinking in perplexity and looking to his flatmate for answers.

John scrubs his forehead and blows out a ragged sigh. 'You don't know the half of it. _Someone,'_ he states pointedly, as Jim leans forward to sniff at Sherlock's hand, 'was acting like another someone had D-I-E-D.' He spells it out, but it's not necessary. The puppy is oblivious.

Sherlock arches a brow, curious. 'Had your hands full, then?'

'God, yes.'

'Well - um. Thank-you,' he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 'For taking care of him. I appreciate it.'

'I'd like to say it was my pleasure, but it was really not. Don't ever do that to me again.'

'Agreed.' Sherlock cracks a smile alive with mirth at his friend's aggressively averse tone and John shakes his head and punches his shoulder, but he's grinning, too.

 **…**

When Molly comes by, Jim is past the point of recognition. She is simply a skittish stranger, whose generously applied musk of lavender and honeysuckle can't quite disguise the scent of Death that clings to her. It makes Jim wary.

But the thing about Molly is - she's nice. You can't help but fall in love with her gentle manner and odd quirks.

And although she is as uncomfortable as he is at first, she softens up after petting him a bit and Jim quivers animatedly over making a new friend, and she chuckles when he tumbles over his own feet after getting a tad overexcited.

Her voice adopts an affectionate, cloying quality and she says Jim is nothing but a big softie. She gives him a great big cuddle before leaving and afterwards, Sherlock muses that she'd make a good dog-sitter for whenever he's out of town, and Jim agrees. Anyone's gotta be better than John.

And Molly is lovely and sweet and he loves her loads already.

 **…**

Sherlock glances down when he feels a tug on his shoelaces. He slowly extracts the thin cord from between slippery teeth and glares down at the perpetrator. Jim falls back and kicks out his legs, gazing back innocently.

'You little scamp. You're more trouble than you're worth,' he tells him, rubbing the pup's belly.

They both know he doesn't mean it.

 **…**

Lazing out in a square of sunlight before the window, on his back with half-lidded eyes and an unfocused gaze, Jim teeters on the edge of sleep while Sherlock experiments with a bloody pound of flesh in the kitchen.

His white t-shirt is scrunched up and exposes the creamy skin of his stomach, with the elastic band his obsolete boxer shorts proudly on display. His lethargic limbs are sprawled out in a starfish sort of shape, curled ever so slightly inwards, and Old Jim (or Moriarty, as he's now referred to, as if he's a separate entity) would have been loathe to admit it, but the idle position he's adopted is unquestionably analogous with that of a dozing dog.

Sherlock takes one look at him and smirks.

He's contented and comfortable, and the gaping hole in his gut that the razing and the maiming and the soulless butchering previously absorbed, is utterly quiet as he twitches and yawns, lazily watching the clouds shuffle across the sky.

How long has it been? Two years, maybe. Could be three. Jim doesn't think about it.

He's got a loving family, composed of his best friend and slightly-less-best-friend and a handful of surprising others, and he's happy. What more could he ask for?

World domination? Nah. He doesn't require a public throne. Not anymore.

Who needs the world when Jim can reign over this little household, only having to whip out _The Look_ to fulfil his heart desires? Anything else would be too much effort.

He has his toys and his belly scratchies and his Sherlock.

This is it now.

This is home.

 **~ Fin ~**


End file.
